


Whispered Memories

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Clockpunk, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Too-many-types-of-punk, F/F, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, Mute Dave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, you were chosen to participate in some sort of experiment. A test, you could say. Or, at least, that’s what they called it. A test. In all reality, though, you’re not quite sure what it really was. Your memories of the entire experience are blurred.</p><p>At best, you can say that you remember it being a game. It was an extremely peculiar game. When you entered it, you gained powers and abilities you’d never knew or even thought you could ever possess. You discovered a world of possibilities and met a plethora of fascinating people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knight and the Heir I

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are always welcome!

**Your name is Dave Strider.**

You remember that the world turned from being an endlessly repeating cycle of frustration and morbid thinking to a land of almost utopian wonder. Things you never could have possibly fathomed, much less thought of, became reality. For the first time in your life, you had a voice. Your silent existence came to have a purpose beyond the musically-centred world it had once been.

It was a game, yes; but, it was more than just that. It was a way of life. It was the way you began to slowly open yourself up to the world. For once in your life, you had friends. You made and maintained relationships with people. You built yourself a new persona—one based on everything you’d ever wanted to be. Then, just as your utopian fantasies became reality, it ended.

The project was shut down. The facility was condemned to become a rotting shell of the virtual paradise you’d managed to build for yourself. You, as well as all the other participants, were wiped of a majority of their memories. The names of all the people you’d met and all the things you’d seen were forcibly removed from your mind. Everything you were before the experiment—essentially everything but a small number of childhood memories and your name—was wiped. You were then given a meagre sum of money and sent out into the real world.

Your name, more accurately described, _was_ Dave Strider. It was Dave Strider when you started that stupid game at least. You grew to like the name, only to have it taken from you. Your name is now, quite simply, Dave. You’re no Strider. Hell, you don’t even know if there is a Strider family any more. Even if there is, you don’t really care to join or rejoin it. Not after you’ve been stuck in a virtual fantasy for five years.

All of that shit is irrelevant, though. What’s happened has happened; it can’t be changed. Or, at least, that’s what you figure. You’ve gone from being a knight who, according to your frustratingly blurry memories, could control time and manipulate reality to being the silent onlooker you were before. As far as you’re concerned, there’s no going back to the way things were as you remember them. There’s no way back to that utopian fantasy.

You haven’t a family to speak of and, even if you do, you don’t have a clue who or where they even are. All the people you’d befriended during the experiment are likely to be dead or far out of your reach. In fact, you _know_ some of them are dead. Some of them were killed in freak accidents during the experiment.

Just as all of this is flooding through you mind, you notice something. Rather, you notice _someone_ in your peripheral vision who, for some inexplicable reason, looks familiar. At the very least, something about his black, rectangular glasses and messy black hair seems to strike a soft spot of indistinct memories. Could it be someone you vaguely remember from then…?

No, that thought is just downright preposterous. This is a junker town. This is for the scum and riffraff like you. There’s no way any of the others wound up in such a jam as you have…

But, still… His face… The light freckles dotting his tanned skin… Everything about him just seems so familiar.

It is at this point that, as if fate happened to be a sentinent being capable of compassion, the man makes a sudden turn towards you before heading out the door. Your gaze meets his, which is an unnaturally vivid blue, and he freezes as quickly as you do.

He stumbles slightly, as if the weight of repressed memories suddenly dropped upon him. Then, to your surprise, he wanders over to you…

* * *

**Your name is John Egbert, a fact which you just so happen to be remembering at this very moment.**

Until now, you’ve been lost in a world that you haven’t a clue about. As far as you’re concerned, you were taken from a facility after its closing and given some cash before being sent off. You hadn’t the foggiest idea of what occurred at that facility or of who you really were. Sure, you had some basic stuff. You had a personality and a sense of humour.You knew the laws of the land—social rules, mannerisms, and general things like that. You had a first name to go by; but, until now, you hadn’t a last name.

That is, until you saw him—a pale blonde in an oversized jacket who happens to be wearing the most ridiculous shades you’ve ever seen. He plays an oddly familiar tune upon a guitar so damaged that it’s wonder it’s even intact; yet, he barely seems to notice that he’s doing so. It’s as if it’s an instinctive action.

Curiosity draws you nearer to him; yet, at the same time, something inside you pushes back.

“Dave?” The name escapes your mouth before you can so much as think of it and, to your surprise, he replies by raising a brow. The music suddenly stops.

His gaze is hidden behind that pair of outlandish, barely-transparent sunglasses; but, you can feel it burning through you. In fact, you feel it doing so for a good minute or so. Then, having apparently given you a satisfactory glance-over, he nods towards the chair across from him.

You assume that the gesture is an invitation and, with a good deal of hesitancy, you sit down.

Seconds after you do so, he reaches for his glasses. Instead of removing them, however, he merely runs his finger along the uncharacteristically thick left temple. A small green light, which you hadn’t noticed until now, flashes on.

“So… I don’t actually have a clue why I called you Dave. It’s kind of weird, really. I don’t even know anyone named ‘Dave’, to be honest… I—”

He interrupts you by pulling out a worn-out notebook and pen. He scribbles something down and, after a few moments of thought, slides it over.

You, naturally, glance downwards. Your gaze falls upon the frayed page, upon which only one thing is written: your name, followed by an excessively large question mark.

“I… How do you know my name?” you stammer in reply.

He scratches out the former comment and scribbles his response below it.

“How do you know mine?”

It’s a reasonable question. How do you know his name…? After all, you don’t recall ever meeting this guy before. Who the hell was he, even!? Why did you call him Dave? Hell, why did he respond to being called Dave?

“I didn’t… I just kind of said a name, and it happened to be ‘Dave’…” you reply after a few minutes of thinking.

He, in return, smirks. “So then you just answered your own question, didn’t you?” he scrawls across the white page in slightly muddy red ink. “You know, you remind me of someone…”

“Well I could say the same for you, you know,” you respond hesitantly.

At this point, he takes the book and begins to write with an unprecedented and slightly disturbing fervour. His pen flies across the page as if he’s trying to write his life story in five minutes. His eyes remain locked on the page, the words of which are faintly reflected in his ridiculous shades. Then, he stops. The sound of pen scratching against paper ceases to register in your mind, replaced by the image of the red words he’s penned against the white page.

“Then maybe I'm not crazy. I swear there was some sort of place. It was this big shitty building, but I remember they did some crazy as fuck stuff there. An experiment. I think that’s what it was. Maybe I’m wrong. But there were other people there. We were all sent to this virtual reality world and given rough instructions. I don’t know what happened from there. But I know they shut it down and kicked us out.”

His note, which ~~the author~~ you have paraphrased from the unpunctuated babble it really was, completely baffles you. Memories begin to form—not distinct enough to clearly see, but not abstract enough to disregard. You can feel the oncoming headache.

“Or maybe they’re right, and you _are_ crazy. Because, honestly, that shit’s way out there. I don’t know how you know my name or why I know yours; but, whatever the reason is, I don’t want to hear it. Or… um… read it,” you respond with uncharacteristic force. Something in the back of your mind drives you to then stagger from your seat and storm from the building, all while ignoring the fact that the blonde continues to pursue you down the street.


	2. The Knight and the Maid I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a point of view switch. I'll be adding different sections. As of now, I've established two definite plot sections: one for the humans and one for the humanised trolls. Each revolves around the time player (à la Aradia and Dave). Yay. I'll sort them out when I upload them so, unlike most fics, this one will probably be annoying as hell to read due to the shifting of chapter orders. Sorry.

**Your name is Karkat Vantas.**

Ever since you can remember, you’ve lived in the streets of one of America’s many junker towns. You make a living picking through trash and recycling or selling off any semi-useful junk you happen upon.

Today, in particular, has been a curiously lucrative day. So far, you’ve already bagged: three electric lamps which, due to their useage of electricity, are bound to fetch a large sum of money; a pocketful of discarded jewelry, most of which is made of valuable metals like gold; and, three gently used radios.

You’re just returning from a long day of dumpster diving, in fact. Or, more accurately, you’re returning to the so-called “Reformation Centre” for so-called “disadvantaged individuals”. Of course, everyone in the place knows it’s actually for the people dubbed to be useless bums; but, seeing as the shit tank provides food and fairly decent shelter, no one complains.

As you return to your area, however, you notice a new face. Or, at the very least, a face that seems new. At the same time, though, it seems familiar. Now, you’re fully aware that the former statement made about as much sense as Andrew Hussie (whoever he is) _not_ killing every single character in Homestuck (whatever that is); but, it’s as if you’ve seen them before, though you don’t recall doing so.

It's something about the dark sunglasses covering his eyes that strikes you as odd. Something about the row of flashing lights along the left temple of the spectacles. His neatly kept blonde hair strikes you as familiar, yet you can’t recall why.

All of this would be much cooler if this new guy wasn’t in your space, though; but, it seems he is. In fact, the idiot is standing in the goddamn centre of your alloted living area. You can’t even reach your mat with him standing where he is.

From experience, you know no one is going to take your side. At the very least, the guards and regulators won’t. They’re too busy looking down their noses at everyone who so much as looks at them funny. So, you take it upon yourself to discipline this new arrival.

“You! Yeah! Douchebag with the bottle blonde hair!” you call out, prompting a few heads to turn (including his). “I’d like to say welcome to the shitpen. Now, I’m pretty sure that you have yet to be briefed about the rules of engagement which dictate the social hierarchy of this little den of disharmonious drudgery; but, that is of relatively minor importance to me. In fact, the only reason I’m even wasting my breath for you is because you happen to be standing in the middle of my territory. Now, if you could just move the fuck over, we could get this entire encounter done and finished without so much as a drop of bloodshed.”

As soon as you finish speaking, the blonde nods dismissively. He takes a notepad from his bag and, after scribbling a brief and informal apology across its surface, he takes his leave. This, alone, doesn’t really affect you at all. Actually, it’s what you happen to spot on the back of his vivid red jacket that arouses your curiosity.

What you see, oddly enough, is the image of a vinyl record, split cleanly into two parts. It’s an innocuous image; but, something inside you stirs. Things of outlandishly fantastical makeup begin to emerge as ideas. Faint images of both failure and success. Blurred recollections of the most barren lunar dustscapes and the absolute pinnacle of eye-popping beauty. Faded reminders of a life lived before…

No… You forcefully shove aside the thoughts swimming through your now-baffled mind and stare blankly at the figure. You find yourself gazing, in capitvated curiosity, at the slight natural frown his pale lips form. Your eyes gravitate towards his nearly-white blonde hair—

**_SPLASH!_ A drop of cold rain lands on your face, rousing you from your fanciful slumber.**

You rub the back of your neck, muttering under your breath about how “fucking annoying as hell” your recurrent dream is.

All the while, you repetitively reassure yourself that the dream is nothing but an insignificant illusion. It’s an image your tired mind conjures up and, because you’re a worthlessly uncreative asshole, it just so happens to be this same thing over and over. There’s nothing worth mentioning about it. It’s a dream. It’s a dream and nothing more.

It is as you think these thoughts—thoughts which you repeat when you wake every morning—that you notice something. You notice a human-shaped shadow being cast down your alleyway and, disconcerningly, it only seems to grow larger. Footsteps… You can hear them echoing up and down the brick-lined corridor.

Instinct and experience compels you to grab a broken rifle and weild it as if it functioned properly, all while making loud exclamations of your imaginary sense of dominance.

“Whoever the fuck you are, you’re an intruder and I suggest you get your goddamned ass out of here before I fucking shoot you.”

It is at this point that, to your complete and utter surprise, you hear a quiet chuckle. “That’s not very nice,” responds a voice, which, from its pitch, you rightfully attribute to a girl.

From the shadows, a somewhat familiar face emerges. Her burgundy eyes seem to match her lipstick and her dark brown hair falls down past her butt. The unsettlingly wide grin across her face seems to be a mirror image of her highly arched brows. You know her. You know you know her. But you can't remember her name.

“Karkat!” she exclaims, her voice practically exploding with excitement. “I’ve been looking for you forever, you know. Where the hell’ve you been?”

**…Your name is Karkat Vantas and, as of now, you have no clue what is actually happening right now.**


End file.
